


Be My Ball (I'll Be Your Chain)

by misbegotten



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am not calling you by your code name in bed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be My Ball (I'll Be Your Chain)

**Author's Note:**

> Shamless PWP, of no redeeming value.

"Christ," Phil says, eloquently. He pauses only briefly in the frame of the bedroom door before slipping inside and closing the door firmly behind him.

"Hawkeye will do, Agent Coulson," Clint replies amiably. He's stripped bare of his Avengers costume and underwear, one hand leisurely pumping his cock. "You wanna help me with this?"

Phil raises an eyebrow, but he's divesting himself of his suit pretty damned quickly, so the answer is obviously a yes. "Socks," he tetches impatiently, and Clint grins unrepentantly as he toes them off. Is it his fault that Phil finished debriefing Stark more quickly than Clint anticipated? Clint had barely had time to ask JARVIS to dim the lights before Phil came in.

"I am not calling you by your code name in bed," Phil adds. He peels off his undershirt and underwear without ceremony and rolls onto the mattress, capturing Clint's lips with his own. He uses teeth, a little hard and just how Clint likes it.

"Aw c'mon. Whisper sweet nothings in my ear," Clint murmurs. He lets out a breathy sigh when Phil bats his hand aside and takes over jacking him off. There's nothing of the paper pusher in Phil's hands, just firm, steady pressure and a creative twist at the top of his dick that makes Clint bite back a moan.

"You're high on adrenaline," Phil observes, but it's laced with affection. "Come back down."

Clint _is_ revved up; six hours motionless in a sniper's nest followed by six minutes of kick-assery has his skin humming, even if he's tamped it into something more manageable like harmless exhibitionism. He frames Phil's face with his hands and pulls him down for another kiss, teeth and tongues and want.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Barton," Phil speaks in his ear, like he has so many times before on comm lines. "I'm going to jack you off until you can't see straight. And then I'm going to fuck you into the mattress."

"Yes sir," Clint manages, Phil's words gripping him with tendrils of need. "Thank you sir."

Phil hums almost imperceptibly as he kisses his way down the line of Clint's jaw, or maybe Clint is imagining the sound, given the ringing in his ears as every pulse point seems to echo the slide of Phil's hand across his dick. Phil pauses briefly to lave the skin at Clint's collarbone, sucking an open-mouthed kiss there that Clint knows won't leave a mark (Phil's careful, oh so careful), then continues his leisurely journey through Clint's erogenous points (this is familiar, well-mapped territory). A kiss in the palm of his right hand, the one not rucked into the covers, fingers contorted in pleasure. Breath on one nipple, skating across the pearled peak like a whisper. A long, slow lick over his hip (Clint wants him to press his fingers in, to mark him and claim him). Noise rushes in Clint's head when Phil touches his lips to the head of Clint's cock, and that's all it takes for him to shudder, pulsing and groaning his release. He tilts his head back, eyes screwed shut, and wallows in the aftershocks where Phil's hand cradles his softening cock, which twitches like Pavlov's dog at the familiar snick of the lube top.

Clint starts to turn over but Phil's hand on his hip stays him. "I want to see you." So Clint settles back against the covers, sticky with his own come pooling on his belly. Phil breaches him carefully (more gently than Clint wants but somehow exactly what he needs) with one finger, then two. The slow, steady pull of Phil inside him, crooking his fingers just right, bows Clint off the bed and he feels lightheaded (feels impatient wantneedmore). A drawn-out hiss accompanies Phil's absence but then Phil's cock is there, teasing his entrance, splitting him open slowly and exquisitely. Clint hooks his heel over Phil's shoulder and mutters, "You won't break me," like he always does, and Phil just smiles. There's a pause as Phil bottoms out, a shared intake of breath, and then Phil's stroking into him. He keeps an effortlessly efficient pace, and Clint feels the day's tension bleeding out, the wire's edge between alertness and boredom that he's kept all day transformed into nothing but desire, the physical connection between them pushing him to just feel (so good) and want (don't stop). Phil's hands are steady at his hips, the hard press of his fingertips into Clint's skin (finally marking him) the only sign of his struggle for control, and Clint finds himself twisting, hips snapping to meet Phil's, to finally drive Phil over the edge, to lose that calm facade and just (taketaketake) give in to the fiery need between them.

With a groan, Phil comes inside of him and it's all Clint can do not to shout in glee. Mirth turns to a wordless chuckle as Phil mops up using the bedspread and then falls heavily on the mattress next to Clint, drawing the sheet up over them both.

"Maybe I didn't do it right," Phil says, but there's a soft smile on his lips. "What's so funny?"

"You make me feel all _mushy_ ," Clint says, still chuckling. "That's your superpower, right? Sneaking up on people and making them _feel_ things?"

Phil throws an arm over Clint. "So far it only works on you."

"Damn straight," Clint says, letting his head fall on Phil's shoulder.


End file.
